


easy now, with my heart

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, hardcore pining on Keith's part, quiet moments and tender touches, semi-angsty???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7257700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And for a fraction of a—second, tick, whatever it is up here in space—Shiro closes his eyes. His hand circles around Keith’s wrist lightly and then he squeezes, and, for the first time, Keith lets himself hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	easy now, with my heart

**Author's Note:**

> everyone headcanons Keith as this moody teenager who got into a ton of fights at the Garrison but I will protect the idea that he's actually a giant softie who just wants to practice self-defense without unnecessarily hurting people with all my heart
> 
> this is yet another one of my attempts at weaving my ideas for Garrison Keith and Shiro with post-Kerberos canon Keith and Shiro
> 
> also there are two more fics from Shiro's point of view coming up, so stay tuned~

“Hold still.”

The mattress dips under Shiro’s weight, the sound of an alcohol wipe packet being torn open filling the silence. Keith keeps his hands clasped together in his lap, trying to remain inconspicuous as he surveys Shiro’s room.

It’s small, probably a third of the size of his—then again, Shiro doesn’t have to share with three other boys. There are a few posters pinned up on the wall opposite them: a faded Garrison recruitment poster and one of those motivational ones that proclaims, under a crisp picture of planes flying in formation, _ABOVE AND BEYOND: When a team of dedicated individuals makes a commitment to act as one…the sky’s the limit._ Keith snorts, a little, at that; of _course_ Shiro would have something like this up. Next to that is a sheet of paper on which is written, in neat block letters, some sort of morning workout routine.

And it’s strange, because Keith has thought—probably a lot more than he should have—about this, but those fantasies usually hadn’t involved him getting clipped on the chin by a punching bag.

It’s not his first injury. He has a habit of taking _“too much on, too fast,”_ per Shiro’s words, which has resulted in all manners of split knuckles and purpling bruises. One of the nurses in the infirmary has taken to teasing him: “I’d worry about someone beating you up, but you seem to be doing a fine job of it yourself.” At least it gives him a certain amount of street cred, even though the truth is that the training room has enough opponents for him to practice against without Keith having to seek out any fights outside its walls.

But this is the first time his injury has come as a result of sheer… _distraction._  

(Shiro had been laughing. Keith had looked up, caught by the sound, forgetting to keep his fists raised—and the machine had clocked him in the face.)

He’d been embarrassed as hell, imagining what he was going to say to the nurse—“I just…wasn’t thinking”—all while Shiro remained in the room leaning against the wall, like the last time, when Keith had sprained his wrist. Except when they left the training room, Shiro had swung down a different corridor, saying, “I can patch you up,” over his shoulder, and Keith had gotten this _lurch_ in his stomach—

And he knows, he _knows_ it’s stupid. Shiro’s supposed to be like his mentor, or whatever. Keith is pretty sure he fills some sort of younger brother role for the guy, because Shiro is just that type of person—patient and firm and, and _gentle_ —

“All right.” Shiro’s fingers are warm as they grasp his chin, tilting it a little bit to the side. Keith sets his jaw as the cloth runs over the scrape; the disinfectant stings, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

Instead, he busies himself with memorizing the contours of Shiro’s face, because this is probably the closest he’s ever going to get. A tuft of dark hair falls over Shiro’s forehead as he works, and his eyelashes are surprisingly delicate, for someone so strong-jawed. They flare out a little at the corners, and—

God. _God,_ he can’t—he can’t do this.

“Keith?” Shiro’s tone is worried, and it’s only when his face comes blurrily into view that Keith realizes that he must have squeezed his eyes shut just a moment ago. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” It comes out harsher than he means it to. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” The older boy pulls away, and Keith presses his hands together harder in his lap so that he doesn’t do something stupid like catch Shiro by the sleeve.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Shiro is saying, crumpling up the used wipe and tossing it in the trashcan. “Maybe put a band-aid on it and ice it, too, to take care of any swelling.”

“Yeah.”

Shiro smiles and glances at the clock on his bedside table. “It’s seventeen hundred. You should probably get to dinner.”

“Right,” says Keith, getting to his feet. “Are you—are you going to be there, later?”

“Nah, they’re taking the newly promoted officers into town tonight for some kind of celebration.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you later, then.” He makes it to the doorway without incident and is just about to set foot in the hall when Shiro’s voice makes him freeze.

“Oh, and Keith?”

 _He knows._ “Yes?”

“Promise me you’ll look after yourself, when I’m gone.”

And Keith hates it, because Shiro is going to Kerberos next year and that’s millions of miles away and they’re only three feet apart right now in Shiro’s sparsely decorated room, and yet—and yet he still can’t muster the courage to close the distance.

“Yeah.” He swallows, manages to toss a smug grin over his shoulder. “I promise.”

 

o.O.o

 

The metal is warm where its edge meets Shiro’s skin; Keith runs his fingers along it, familiarizing himself with the sensation.

“Did it hurt?” he finally brings himself to ask.

Shiro’s voice is a low, broken thing. “I don’t remember.”

They’re alone in the training room, in the aftermath of their failed practice against the Gladiator. Shiro’s shirt is off and he’s staring down at his prosthetic in full, a haunted look in his eyes, and Keith can tell that whatever flashback rattled Shiro earlier has yet to release its hooks.

And he’s not—good, at this. Hunk’s the engineer onboard, but machines aren’t the same as people, anyways, and this is all Keith’s roundabout way of admitting that he hasn’t the faintest clue how to take care of Shiro, but he knows he wants to _try_ —

“Back at Garrison, I made you a promise,” Keith starts, turning slightly so that his knees bump against Shiro’s. He can see the recognition swimming in Shiro’s eyes, takes comfort that that, at least, is something Shiro remembers. “I wasn’t very good at keeping it. After you…disappeared, I—I did a lot of stuff I probably shouldn’t have. I got myself kicked out. But I’m here now, and whatever the Galra did to you, we’ll figure out. We’ll stop Zarkon, somehow. But in the meantime, if you ever need to talk, or,” and here he allows himself one selfishness; here he reaches up to touch Shiro’s scar, “or if you just don’t want to be alone, I’m here.”

And for a fraction of a—second, tick, whatever it is up here in space—Shiro closes his eyes. His hand circles around Keith’s wrist lightly and then he squeezes, and, for the first time, Keith lets himself hope.

Shiro’s eyes are the same brown they’ve always been, if a bit more tired. His eyelashes are still long. And his smile is sad but gentle.

“I know.”


End file.
